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“Mom, can you go to Wal-MART to buy me a love potion?”
” A what?”
“I need a love potion to make Kylee fall in love with me”

James Jones profile

It begins!!

I remember when I loved Martie….ahhhh Martie! He was the green eyed sandy haired, caramel skinned boy in my kindergarten class. When we went to gym class, I would beg to be his square dance partner! Whenever we had to go to the reading corner…I can still remember praying that he would choose the bean bag beside me to read his book. Too bad Martie never noticed me. Well except the day he forgot his raincoat. I chased him to the buses with a lime green and plaid coat. it was sharpie labeled , Martie Allensworth!

“Your coat!! Don’t forget your coat!!!” I called out as my rainbow assorted beads bounced against my face.  He turned to grab it from me and then it happened. Martie smiled and then he proclaimed…” you are my friend!” I stood there in the rain…wet with muddy shoes, forgetting that my bus was waiting for me. That’s it? I was his friend?? When my dad forgot his coat, my mother would bring it to him and as a reward she would receive as kiss.   MARTIE… I WANT TO BE YOUR WIFE! YOUR TRUE LOVE!! oh the disappointment of it all!
Today, it is no longer a concern of mine, but my 4 yr old, however, has been bitten for sure by this bug of love.
Her name is Kylee! She’s blonde with big blue eyes and dimples and she sits next to him in circle time. It began the day she came up to him and for no apparent reason, she kissed my James on his cheek. He bashfully discussed it over dinner that evening and we thought the moment would naturally pass. Instead it naturally grew!
“Mom, can you go to Wal-MART to buy me a love potion?”
” A what?”
“I need a love potion to make Kylee fall in love with me”
“Uh…well…uh….um…well…doesn’t she already love you? She kissed you!”
” okay. Now… does Ethan know that she loves him?”
“WHOA! slow down lil ninja! there will be no destroying!”
” MOM, JUST GET THE POTION PLEASE!!! and we can mix it up in here!” he pointed to the big blue laundry basket.
I shook my head and tickled him, hoping to watch him laugh it off. He didn’t. hours later when I came home with Wal-Mart bags, He searched them thoroughly and exclaimed…”YOU FORGOT THE POTION!!! NOW she’ll never love me!”
for the first time in my life, I didn’t know what on earth to say.

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Home schooling my son was no easy feat! We had to suffer through the uninformed comments of those who were completely ignorant of how it all works.We had to tough out assignments that were often more challenging than the ones assigned to his grade in the public school system. We had to work around our own schedules, and I had to be the principal, the teacher, the volunteer parent, the coach, the lunch lady and the cheer leader.

When the time came to put my son back into the public school system, I wondered…would everything I taught him pay off? Would he shine academically as I hoped for? Would he know how to research things on his own? Would he enjoy learning?

We called a teacher conference to speak with his 6th grade teachers to hear the verdict on his behavior, his level of understanding, and his accomplishments, if any, for the first quarter .

Nervously, my pen clicked away beneath the table distracting even me as I spoke. After all, the reason I home schooled him in the beginning was due to his issue with classroom settings. I knew they would speak about his outburst, and his impulse actions. I knew they would mention his overly friendly personality and his excessive talking. They would have to speak about his silliness and his inability to stand still. They would probably ask me if I knew of a great doctor that could help him with his adhd, and they’d surely suggest that I work harder to help Tyler understand that he ought to be a team player and that he was no longer a single student in a home.

My clicking pen slowed down as the math teacher began…

” Your son is very friendly and incredibly respectful”

the language Art’s teacher added…”He’s definitely one of the top five in our class!”

The social Studies announced, “And he’s very wise about choosing the smart and kind students. He stays clear of the trouble makers.He look for friends with goals like his.”

“Your son is brilliant and he comes up with difficult questions that even challenge me” His Language arts teacher remarked.

“You can tell that he’s a hands on learner. He’s going to do awesome in the cow’s eye dissection!” His Science teacher exclaimed.

“Your son has come a long way from his first week of school. He’s adapting just fine”

“And Mrs. Jones….Your son made the Honor Roll.”

My heart exploded into dancing pieces! Had I heard them correctly!??!

Yes, Indeed I had. My son sat there with a beaming glow that I had never witnessed before. Proud parent moments like this remind me…

It’s okay to get up early to make sure he has a hot breakfast. It’s okay to hug him and kiss his cheek before he rushes out the door. It’s okay to stay up late to make sure he finished each and every assignment. it’s okay to critique his work and challenge him to write better, dig deeper, and search harder! It’s okay to make him read above his grade level. It’s okay to say “look it up”. It’s okay to say…this is not your best work and I’ll wait with you as you re-do this assignment. It’s okay to tuck a big old boy in the bed after prayer time, and it’s okay to tell him that his day will be better tomorrow.

It may seem tough, but it’s love! My job as a parent is not to leave him to figure it all out alone, instead, my job is to be that life coach that’s there most of the journey. I’m not his boss, I’m proudly serving my son to give him stability, confidence, dreams, and the means to reach them. Now he sees what he can accomplish. So proud of the boy I used to worry about day in and day out. Skinny jeans and spike bracelets didn’t stop his learning (although he did have to give that up) PROUD MOMMAS UNITE! and PUSH OUR KIDS TO BE THE BEST THEY CAN BE…not better than others, but the better version of themselves.

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The birthday signs welcomed everyone from the street and little boys came racing down the road at exactly five til six. They must have been waiting all day for the celebration to begin. Gifts in hand, three young gentleman respectfully greeted me and raced passed me to find my birthday boy. The trampoline, now worn and ragged still seemed to hold to it’s commitment as six boys tackled one each other in the center of it. The DJ, my husband, made sure their favorite songs were blasting through the airwaves of the backyard, and my friends and I prepared activities and crafts for everyone. 8 pizza boxes sat on the kitchen counter teasing us all with the aroma. Everyone – All smiles!

My son was 11. The days of fire engine trucks and Dollar Tree toys have passed me. I remember the days of Chuck E. Cheese birthdays. I remember when a stop at the neighborhood park would actually be the highlight of the day as long as he could show me how far he could jump from the mid air swing.
I watched my son bounce around and wrestle his friends on the trampoline. the sound of the pounding speakers and the grunts of testosterone filled boys drowned away under the sound of my own private thoughts.
ONLY 7 YEARS LEFT. In just three years I’ll be sending him to high school. IN just five years he’ll request the keys to his father’s car. In just six years we’ll watch him nervously attempt his SAT, and finally in just 7 years His father and I will release him to this world. I watched my son show off his forward flips from the deck railing onto the trampoline, a dangerous silly thing I should have never allowed. I watched his friends hi-five him with their approval of his cool tricks. My thoughts still racing; I realized that at this tender age of 11, life was great for him. He would end his night with a smile after opening his many gifts. He would wake up the next day to roam the neighborhood with a band of friends who all sincerely respect him and accept him for who he is goofiness, hyperness and all. He doesn’t have to worry about a neighborhood bully. He won’t have to walk into a house where he’s hungry at night. He doesn’t have to close his door tightly to shut out the sound of fighting parents. He doesn’t struggle with his grades, and he belongs to a pretty awesome church that’s down to earth with practical teaching. Life is good for him. I closed my eyes and prayed for a pause in his life. Easy days don’t last forever…I know that tough days are ahead. when I opened my eyes, I saw him jumping higher than usual. His smile was bright and without a care in the world. I wanted to capture the moment and keep it tightly sealed within a jar perhaps. Children are only ours for a moment. We are their guides, their leaders, their encouragers,their instructors, and from time to time, their friends, but we are not their EVERYTHING! They build friendships and those friends will know them even more then we do. They discover purpose and life in avenues that we never planned. They look back sparingly to say thank you, and then their off to create life and even their own families. In just seven years, he’ll go off to find his own way. I watched him play as I prayed within, Dear lord, help me to help him enjoy his last seven years in my home. help me to be a good care taker over this precious life. help me to instill love and not bitterness. Help me to teach him forgiveness. Help me to show him compassion so that he will do the same. Let me cherish these last seven years. The sound of the music became clear again and the horseplay on the trampoline had finally reached it’s peak of danger so I called them down. I pulled my son to the side in hopes to give him a hug, but to my surprise, he embraced me first. “This is the best birthday mom. I love you.” he kissed my cheek and with a love so deep and unexplainable, I kissed him in return. ” I love you too Sweetheart. Go have fun.” The police finally gave us the slow drive -by warning around 9pm to remind us that our speakers were too loud. I think that after seeing the little children smiling and dancing inside around cake and ice cream, even he had to decide to just let them be. If we all could, we would go back to the innocent days of our childhood.  Man would I do some things differently. Kiss & thank mom more for start!

See ya next Monday on the FroggyBloggy or visit my website @ to find out more about my book release in the fall! Happy Monday!

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“I’m not afraid of the cops, Mom!”

     I’ll never quite understand where my 4 year old got his vicious mean streak from. I have my guesses, but that’s beside the point. Four years of age  is simply too young to think that you’re big enough bold enough, and strong enough to take on the police. Unfortunately for me,  I happen to be the mother of the ninja. In case you were not aware, Mother of a ninja is going to be my new social club. I think I’ll give it a cool acronym. (M.O.A.N.)   When you’re the mother of a ninja you have to prepare yourself for a break out war at any given moment.  Wal-Mart is definitely one of his battle fields. I could be strolling through the active wear when suddenly he’ll dart from the yoga pants with one arm outstretched to the ceiling and his other arm tucked tightly behind his back to conceal his weapon. Giving little silver haired ladies somewhat of a near death experience with his surprising jolt and evil scowl, My four year old would announce that he is a ninja.

       I’ve gotten myself to the point where I’m now very accepting of his ninja culture. I smile and continue to walk through the malls even when he jumps off 0f the resting benches into the crowds of teeny boppers.  I’ve gotten comfortable with him darting in front of  old men at Chic-Fila  to make slicing sounds with imaginary nun chucks.


             It all began once when taking him to his sweet little church preschool in our nice little town. My music was on blast that morning and My son and I were singing praises to God to our rocked out version of  Our God is Greater. Ignoring the school zone, I zipped right through and there Mr. Trooper was, shortly after, flashing those terrible, never pretty, blue lights behind me. James saw my face turn downward and I slumped in my seat. I mumbled and eventually by the time the police walked away from my door with a friendly smile but a three hundred dollar ticket,  I burst into tears.

       “Don’t worry mom, I can get that police man. I can beat him up!” James proclaimed with a very serious determination in his little eyes. I gave no thought to his words. I was too busy crying.

Months and months have passed, so last week when the police pulled behind me for no reason but to go in my direction and intimidate the *&%# out of me, I straitened up and gave my warning to the boys.

“Is everyone in their seats with their seat belts on?” I asked.

My oldest son called from the back seat, “no mom, you know who is out of his seat again!”

I panicked. “Young Man…the police are right behind me and you better not move. It’s too late for you to hop in your seat now because he’s gonna see you moving all around so stay seated!” I instructed firmly as I headed toward a plaza to stop and buckle him back in.  Mistakenly, I should have not informed him of the police’s whereabouts. His eyes darkened as they exposed his  sinister desire for sweet revenge.

He jumped from the back seat to face directly out of the rear window. he looked the cop square on as his little fingers transformed into imaginary guns.

           “Don’t worry mom! Don’t cry this time! I’m not afraid of the cops.” His missile  sound effects were piercing. “I will get those mean cops and beat them up. I can fight them!” He continued as he aimed out of the window.

    Surely I was going to die! I begged God for Mercy as I screamed at the top of my lungs. “SIT YO BUTT DOWN NOW!”

My oldest son was outraged. He couldn’t  believe the gall of my four year old, and in some way I think he was impressed.  He finally came to my assistance, snatching the little ninja down from the window. It was a relief to see the policeman pass us by.

 My nerves were frazzled. Am I raising a little Gangster? Perhaps a shoot out guy? and It was even more frustrating to see that he never quite understood why he was in trouble. He was only defending his mother’s honor.

This too shall pass, I prayed later on in my quiet time. He’s just a boy with an awesome imagination and a desire to avenge his mother at any cost. (how psychotically flattering.) That’s my little ninja! I now know that when ever trouble comes to call on Jesus and to call on James.

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I’m trying not to come to the realization that my mothering services are probably going to be overlooked until I’m crawling into my little death bed that faces the wall instead of a window.

I remember the day I looked at my oldest son.  He was younger and sweeter then. Sincerely, I asked him, “When I’m old, who will take care of me? Will you? Will you come take care of me?”

I waited patiently for his little 8 year old response that I assumed would come wrapped in love and tenderness. However, he looked into my eyes and responded.

“Mom, I’m going to be working alot, so uh, maybe my wife can take care of you.”

I must have swallowed a lump in my throat the size of a rat! Did he just pass the buck to his wife that we know not of? To a person that does not even exist yet? To a woman that  will probably HATE ME?” I stood to my feet in disbelief.  But what about all the things I do for you, I mumbled within painfully. What about the things I do that you never even see… like lay out your clothes or organize your school notebooks and folders. What about the extra treats I buy from Dollar Tree to make you smile, and what about the underwear I find for you when you’re running around frantically trying to find a clean pair?  What about the breakfast I fix or the dinner or the lunch? What about the clothes I buy or the fun birthday parties I throw for you? What about the forgiveness and grace I extended when you caught my couch on fire or when you spilled red punch on my bedroom floor? What about the times I excused the sharpie designs on my backseats of my Honda Accord.

Sometimes I want to Pickett and proclaim…

I am not Snow White. I do not Whistle while I work to make your little dusty bedrooms better.

I am not a maid.

I am not your Taxi.

I am not your Doctor.

I am not your lawyer.

I am not your chef!

I am not your personal assistant.

I am not your teller machine.

I am not your little genie in a bottle!

But unfortunately, I will probably be viewed as such. I’m waiting for the day My son will appear at my door in a suit with flowers waiting to take me to some wonderful place to show me how much he adores me and I want to hear him admit that his father did not put him up to it. I look forward to the days when Mother’s day is not the day that he will make angry outburst about having a KID DAY. I look forward to the times when he will have my dinner done and my laundry folded. I look forward to the day that he will say “Here mother, I paid the bills and this money is yours to buy a dress!” Should I stop holding my breath. Yes perhaps.The truth is… as a mother, I am going to have these assumptions and demands heavily placed upon my shoulders daily. Can I successfully pull it off without bitterness and frustration. REAL TALK! my answer is no. I will see many bitter days and many frustrated moments, but I have to believe that my role as a mother is so highly respected, if not by them then by my peers who travel with me on this road and even by those who never have to.  Motherhood is a sure way to remember what God would love to have from us. Gratitude.Thanks.Praise. But he rarely gets it.  I would love to read his blog!

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I don’t even have to see it because unfortunately the unappealing aroma permeates throughout the entire hallway, and when you’re working with a ranch style home under 1500 square feet, the hallway equals the living room, the, bedrooms and the office as well! DARN IT!! DIDN’T I JUST CLEAN THAT BATHROOM YESTERDAY? Oh the dread of having to actually reach so far behind the toilet that my hair might accidentally brush up against the filthy porcelain . PLEASE GOD DON’T LET MY HAIR TOUCH THE TOILET!!

I’m gonna either die from the smell of the pee or the smell of the bleach that I overuse.

The poll begins. I assume that you know what poll I am referring to if you have been a mother or know one. I don’t need a clip board, but I feel as though I should have one along with a voice recording device to document the where-abouts of the individuals questioned.

The preschooler–“where were you  last night? did you go pee before you went to sleep? Did you remember to lift the seat, young man? Did you take your thumb out of your mouth when you went to go pee pee? Did you remember that you are not allowed to play READY -AIM- SHOOT when you go pee pee? Do you remember where the pee pee ends up when you play that game? Did you wipe the seat? DID YOU EVEN OPEN YOUR EYES??”

The Middle School-er— “Do you realize that you don’t have have any slaves or maids around here? I’m not squatting Down there to clean up a mess that you’re capable of cleaning.  DO you smell that? DO YOU SMELL THAT??? How long were you going to  see and smell that before you did something about it. You’re too old for me to have to leave little cute sprinkle tinkle rhyming posters on the wall to help you remember. DO YOU DO THIS AT SCHOOL? AND GOD HELP, DID YOU WASH THOSE HANDS??

Everyone usually blames the other and we get nowhere. The cleaning has to begin none the less and guess who wins the prize of doing it? MOM.  I thought about how unfair that was, and how insensitive it is for someone to not even notice that they are the PEE culprit.

One morning, I stumbled through my dark bedroom looking for my robe as I prepared to wake the boys for their morning rituals of school morning madness. First stop-bathroom. Plopping down on the toilet to do my business, I yelped at the thought of something small scurrying across my foot. Spiders were ruthless in the hot months and always making their way into my bathroom. I turned on the light to see if my suspicions served my correct. I could not believe my eyes! It was not a spider! But to my horror and to my dismay and utter shock, It was PEE!  “Huh?” “No way”

YES! Moms, did you know that even though we’re not standing up, if and when we don’t position ourselves just right, we too have the ability to let it slip right through  the front and onto the floor? I know this is too much info but I just have to keep it real! MOMS, SOMETIMES IT’S US!!!  Hope today is a clean day for all of you mothers out there and I hope you find creative ways to keep your hair from touching the seat when you clean the floor! Have an awesome Monday!

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